


cast some light

by mbaline



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Blood, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Forced Rape, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Sam Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline
Summary: “Please,” Bucky says after a moment, his voice pleading; desperate. Sam feels it like a suckerpunch, like a knife cutting at the weakest part of him, and he’s shaking his head, no, don’t, please but Bucky’s already speaking over him: “I’ll do whatever you want.”





	cast some light

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags.

The slot in the door opens, filling the room with a thin blade of light. 

The soft scrape of a shoe against the floor, and then an energy bar is pushed through the opening. Sam watches it slide to a halt at his feet. A moment later the door slot slams shut again, throwing the room back into darkness. 

It’s been eight days since they got captured, Sam guesses, reaching down slowly to begin unpeeling the wrapper. It takes a lot of self-control to go slow; his hands are shaky with hunger, his gut an empty aching hollow. This is the third time they’ve fed him, the fifth time the slot has opened since they’d first separated him from Bucky and shoved him in here alone. The first time they opened it Sam had tried to talk to his captors--some HYDRA offshoot--politely, at first, and then a little less politely when it became clear they weren’t in the mood for conversation. 

He’d stopped talking after he heard one of them signal to the other and then, after a few seconds, a long agonised yell from somewhere down the corridor: Bucky. Sam wished that he didn’t know the exact sound of Bucky in pain, or how much he must be hurting to make that noise. Sam didn’t talk back after that, doesn’t say anything at all when the slot opens and they alternate between delivering him water and food. 

Eight days. The ache of his concussion has dulled to a low throb, his cracked ribs no longer like a knife in his side every time he breathes. He’d spent the first few hours combing over every corner of the cell, hunched over with pain, and found nothing useful besides the bucket in the corner. He’d scraped his fingernails raw trying to find a loose seam on the cell door, realised it was futile, lay down. Slept some, woke at the sound of Bucky screaming again, drifted uneasily between wakefulness and unconsciousness. Hard to tell the difference between the two, lying like this in the darkness. 

Sometimes the walls feel oppressive, closing in on him, choking him. Other times it feels like there’s no walls at all, like he’s just floating in a blank void of nothing; endless, terrifying. He’s never longed for the open sky more, for the weight of the wings on his back and the feel of the wind on his face. Sometimes he can feel Bucky beside him, the warm weight of him pressed up close, solid and real and alive.

Bucky stopped screaming by the third day. He’s still alive, Sam tells himself in the darkness of the room. They’re going to get out of here. They’re going to be fine. 

****

On the ninth day, they take Sam out of his cell.

The light hurts his eyes; he’s dizzy, stumbling between them as they drag him down the corridor, his hands cuffed tightly together. After a few moments he stops fighting and lets them, focusing his efforts instead on taking in the situation: two men either side of him, another at the end of the corridor, all armed with military-grade kit and weaponry. At full strength, Sam could probably take them. Half-starved and on the verge of dehydration, not so much. The man to his left has a handgun in easy reach. Sam can clearly visualize how to disarm him and take all three men out in the work of a moment, can already feel the familiar adrenaline rush thrumming under his skin even as he slumps limp in their arms. No use wasting the opportunity when he still has no idea what he’s up against or where Bucky is or how they’re going to get out of here. 

As they progress down the corridor a sound encroaches on the edge of Sam’s awareness, a heavy thudding sound from behind the door where they’re keeping Bucky; they’re hitting him. Rage wells up in Sam’s chest at the thought of it as the man steps aside and reaches for the door.

Then the door swings open, and Sam goes cold all over. 

The room is packed full of at least a dozen men, lining the walls, all of their attention focused on the centre display: three men crouched over a prone, naked Bucky, one of them at his mouth and the other behind him, his hands on Bucky’s hips as he pulls him back on to his cock before letting him be tugged forward onto the other man’s dick like some twisted game of tug-of-war, jerking Bucky back and forth like a ragdoll between them. The third man has a knife, wet with blood.

Sam can’t contain the thin, wounded noise that escapes him as the full horror settles over him like a shroud: Bucky bloodied and bruised and not fighting back, the stink of sweat and blood and semen so thick in the air he already knows how long they’ve been doing this. All that time Sam thought that the dark cell had been torment, trapped in there alone. That was practically heaven; this, right here, is hell, and Bucky’s been enduring it for days. 

At the sound of Sam’s cry Bucky’s whole body tenses and he stills, twisting his head enough to catch sight of Sam in the doorway. Through his dark curtain of hair Sam glimpses his eyes widen, his resulting sound of horror muffled by the intrusion in his mouth as he begins to struggle in the men’s grip, lashing out with elbows and knees and fists as the rest of the men descend on him with their batons and heavy boots.

 _Please_ , Sam finds himself praying as he struggles in his captors’ grip, though whether he’s asking for the men to stop their beat-down or Bucky to stop fighting back he doesn’t know. Not like anyone’s listening anyway. The smash of the gun against his temple is almost a relief, the rush of blood through his ears as he hits the floor briefly drowning out the sound of metal striking flesh and the crack of bone and Bucky’s ragged breathing through it all. 

By the time the men pull back Bucky isn’t moving any more. He’s curled up on his side, barely breathing; still alive. From this angle Sam can see how the knife is now embedded to the hilt into his right shoulder. His mouth is moving, too quietly for Sam to hear what he’s saying. 

“Speak up.” One of the men steps forward. He crouches down in front of Bucky, flicking at the hilt of the knife with his index finger. When Bucky doesn’t respond with anything more than a choked noise the man grabs his hair by the roots and drags him upright, pulling his face away from the floor. The man shakes him, once, like an unruly dog.

“‘Said you’d--” Bucky pauses to spit a mouthful of white-tinged blood, “leave him out of this.” 

The man nods, his voice calm, agreeable. “That was before my men got bored. For Hydra’s dog, your tricks are limited. He, in the other hand,” his gaze shifts to meet Sam’s; Sam tries to put all of his disgusted rage into that single look, “might have something more to offer us.” 

“Please,” Bucky says after a moment, his voice pleading; desperate. Sam feels it like a suckerpunch, like a knife cutting at the weakest part of him, and he’s shaking his head, _no, don’t, please_ but Bucky’s already speaking over him: “I’ll do whatever you want.” 

The man gives Bucky a long, calculating look, his eyes flickering between him and Sam. He’s going to be the first to die, Sam decides. The moment he gets his hand on a gun, this bastard’s name is on the first bullet. 

“Okay,” the man says eventually. He relinquishes his hold on Bucky’s hair, gesturing at the men standing over Sam. “Get him over here.” 

Sam kicks and struggles as they drag him bodily over until he’s on his knees in front of Bucky’s crouched form, Bucky’s head bowed like he can’t bring himself to look Sam in the eye. This close it’s impossible not to see the brutality they’ve inflicted on him: bruises and burns and blood all over him, his feet a torn-up mess, the knife in his shoulder shifting with every slight movement. Sam looks closer, feeling bile rise in his throat as a pattern emerges from the deep cuts covering Bucky’s back: letters; words carved into the skin. The man with the knife is second on Sam’s list; he’s dying next. 

“You know what to do,” the man says to Bucky as he steps back to join the other men lining the walls, who are all watching the spectacle before them with sickening interest. And then, to Sam: “And if you struggle--” One of the men slams his baton down onto the crooked curl of Bucky’s left foot, ripping a cut-off shout of agony from Bucky’s throat as bone shatters. 

“Stop, stop, please,” Sam babbles, the words spilling from his throat when the man makes like he’s going to hit Bucky again. 

“Then get the fuck on with it,” the man spits back, baton lowered but still in hand. 

A moment later, Bucky lifts his head up, exposing his face to Sam. Both eyes are black with bruising, one swollen shut and the other not much better. His lips are split, wet blood dripping from his mouth and nose and the deep cuts on his temple and cheek and jaw. He looks Sam in the eye and blinks slowly, his mouth moving just enough for Sam to make out the words _I’m sorry_ as he presses in close and reaches for Sam’s fly with shaking hands. 

They’ve never done----they’ve only ever kissed. The few times they’d tried more, Bucky had frozen up and gone very still, his breath hitching unevenly in his chest before he jerked, pulling away, face twisting in something like shame and something like disgust as he murmured, “Sorry, sorry, I’ll, I can--” and made like he was going to go, and Sam would coax him back and they’d just lie there instead, close but not touching; and that was nice, that was good, just to be with each other. 

Now Bucky pulls Sam’s cock free carefully, brushing his lips softly over the exposed skin before covering it first with his hands and then his mouth as if he’s trying to spare Sam the indignity of being exposed in front of all these men. Sam forces his hips to keep still as Bucky swallows him down, his mouth slick and hot and tight, and even as the horror of Bucky being made to do this and the humiliation of being like this in front of all these men washes over him, Sam can feel himself beginning to harden. 

Soon Bucky’s nose is pressed to Sam’s crotch, hot puffs of air heating the skin there. His throat clenches tight around the tip of Sam’s cock and he groans, his hips stuttering forward and then back again, disgusted at himself, but Bucky doesn’t choke, just takes him in deeper and deeper before pulling back, his tongue working at the underside of Sam’s cock with experienced precision, nudging at the foreskin until he can lave over the exposed slit. Sam can’t help the groan that escapes him at the stimulation, so intense it’s almost painful and then Bucky’s fucking his mouth down onto Sam’s cock, his left hand sliding down to rub and squeeze at Sam’s balls while his other jerks at Sam’s cock in counterpoint and oh god, it’s too much, it’s too good, and Sam tips his head back, closing his eyes and biting back a groan as he feels the heavy ache between his legs begin to build, burning sparks of pleasure rippling up his spine at each precise press of Bucky’s tongue and lips and fingers. 

Before he knows it Sam can feel his balls drawing up and he reaches down, clutching at Bucky’s hair in warning. At the slight touch Bucky stills, pulling back, his hand splaying across Sam’s thigh as he looks up at Sam through his eyelashes. His face is flushed, the split on his lip re-opened and dribbling blood, but the worst part is that beneath the bruising and the bleak shame he looks _concerned_ , like Sam’s the one hurting, like Sam’s the one that needs reassurance. Sam slides his hand from Bucky’s head to his less-damaged cheek, brushing his thumb over the skin there in pale imitation of real comfort. 

“That’s enough,” the man commands, slicing the moment in two as he brings Sam back to reality: a room full of men watching them both and getting off on Bucky’s pain and degradation.

Bucky closes his eyes, pressing briefly into Sam’s touch before pulling away. He changes position, turning to face away from Sam and lowering his chest to the ground as he spreads his legs wider. Presenting himself, Sam realises with renewed dread. His thighs are slick with blood and come, his hole like an open wound between them, torn-up and loose. Sam doesn’t want to think about how many men have been in this position, about how many men have forced their way inside the way he’s about to, but it’s impossible not to, impossible to look away from the words carved into Bucky’s shoulders and back and sides. Sam’s pulled from his sickened reverie at the press of skin to skin as Bucky arches his back, angling Sam’s cock between his thighs and rolling his hips until the tip nudges at his rim.

From there it barely takes any effort at all for Sam to slide in, the muscles fluttering in vain around him, too loosened to clutch at him properly. The noise as he pushes in deeper is wet, obscene; he can feel come and blood beginning to drip down his balls as his presses in until he’s buried to the hilt. Bucky makes a soft, punched-out noise in response, shuddering beneath him. The next moment he begins to move, slowly at first and then almost punishingly fast, driving his hips forward until Sam’s almost all the way out of him before shoving back, impaling himself on Sam’s cock again and again. Sam moans and clutches at Bucky’s hips, first to steady him and then to help guide the angle of his thrusts until the sloppy gape of him feels almost good, nearly enough to drown out the humiliation and disgust of getting pleasure from something so profoundly awful. 

One of the men steps forward, pants shoved down his thighs and cock in hand. Before Bucky has time to get himself upright the asshole grabs a handful of hair and drags him with a choked-off groan onto his cock, forcing his way in to the hilt in one brutal shove. With his other hand he reaches for the knife in Bucky’s shoulder and _twists_ , the vibrations of Bucky’s sob of pain drawing a moan out of him as he starts fucking Bucky’s mouth. Sam clenches his eyes shut, trying to drown out how each movement of the knife makes Bucky clench tight around him, milking the precome out of him with every squeeze.

The man in front comes in no time at all, pulling back to spill wet stripes over Bucky’s face and hair and then smearing it in with his fingers. The rest of the men have crowded in close, now, jostling for a position like vultures, bumping up behind Sam like Bucky’s a carcass they’re waiting to devour the moment he’s done. Some of them have their cocks out. All of them are distracted. The next man takes his place at Bucky’s mouth.

Sam adjusts his grip on Bucky’s hips, sliding one hand more firmly under him as if reaching for his cock, instead pressing his palms firmly to the skin above, out of sight of the men. 

_Five._

He tucks his thumb under, praying that Bucky understands him. 

_Four._

Bucky’s foot nudges against Sam’s own, even as he keeps up the vigorous pace of his hips. He tucks his index finger down against his palm.

_Three._

Middle finger. 

_Two._

Ring. 

_One._

Pinky.

In a flash Sam closes his hand around the hilt of the knife and yanks it free, flipping it in his grip and stabbing it backwards into the thigh of the man behind him before pulling it free and slashing viciously at every leg in range, slicing muscle and tendons and blood vessels without pause. The hoarse scream of the man in front of Bucky is background noise to the clatter of a stun baton against the floor. Sam reaches for it with his free hand, using it to clear enough space for himself to stumble to his feet, sending the man on his left to the ground spitting pieces of teeth and the man on his right down clutching his tasered balls. 

After that it becomes a jumble of bodies and blood, Sam slicing up skin with the knife and breaking bones with the baton and distantly he can feel his face twisted into a smile and then the next thing he knows he’s on the ground and his knife has opened up the man’s throat and it’s everywhere, all over him, the man gasping wetly beneath him as the blood sprays between his twitching fingers, jugular perforated by a sniper’s bullet, Sam needs to apply pressure and call for med-evac and where the hell is Riley, where’s--where’s----where’s---------

****

Sam blinks. 

He’s sitting in a bath, his hands hugging his knees to his chest. He’s wearing underwear.The water around him is warm, a gentle stream of it massaging at his scalp, down over his back. He tips his head forward. The water spills over his eyes, his face, his lips. It tastes faintly like iron. 

A damp cloth carefully wipes his face clean. Bucky’s face comes into view, bruised and a little flushed, like he’s been scrubbing it roughly. Sam can see smears of red at his temple and jaw where he missed some. 

“Hi,” Bucky says softly. 

“Hi,” Sam manages to say. His voice feels like gravel in his throat. His lungs are full of sharp stones. He has a lot of questions. He can’t bring himself to speak. 

Bucky puts down the shower head and shuts off the water. He sits back against the wall. He’s shirtless, wearing his underwear. There’s a needle and thread on the side-table beside him, along with a bottle of disinfectant, little spots of blood on the cap. Probably tried to sew the knife wound on his shoulder. 

“We’re in the safehouse. I called Steve, let him know we’re alive. Said we needed some time,” Bucky says, trailing off. “Unless you think it’s better to go back now. I don’t know.” His face goes brittle, mouth tightening. Sam could almost mistake it for anger, if not for the fact that he already knows this is how Bucky looks when he’s slipped past fear and into terror. 

Sam shakes his head. His arm feels weighted with rocks as he lifts his hand up to rest on the side of the bath, palm facing up. After a few moments, Bucky shuffles over and presses his face to it, hiding his expression. His spine is a smooth curve. Sam watches a thin line of red seep down from one of the carvings on Bucky’s back, the words already scabbed over and beginning to heal. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs against Sam’s skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His shoulders shake violently, once, twice, and then he’s still. That’s how he always is, when he gets emotional: like a summer storm, blink and you’ll miss it. 

Sam doesn’t say _You don’t have to be sorry_ or _I’m sorry too_ or _It’s okay, we’re okay_ because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t saying anything at all. In the end he just reaches out his arm, silently pleading, and Bucky reaches back, clambering into the bath with him, red-stained water sloshing over the sides, and they lie there until the water goes cold. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was very cathartic to write. I'm debating writing a sort-of sequel about how Sam and Bucky deal with intimacy in the aftermath of this; if this is something you'd like to see, please let me know!
> 
> Comments/feedback are always very appreciated; let me know what you thought! <3


End file.
